Suicidal Savior
by Moonhawk88903
Summary: Death has consumed my life. It's taken my mother and best friend and I wish it would do the same with me. I don't want to want that, with all of my heart, and I'm trying, I really am, but it's just not that simple. But I'm getting a new start in Japan, one last shot, and I'm going to make the best of it if it kills me. Literally or otherwise. ((More info inside.))


**A/N: ****Rated T because non-violent descriptions of suicide are not inappropriate for teens. Plenty of teens struggle with self-harm/urges and are lost to suicide. It's a topic that should not be shied from.**

**This is a re-write of an old story of mine by the same name. I decided to write it over with major changes because even though parts of it are funny and all, I'm unhappy with how I developed and presented the characters and because it was medically inaccurate. But mostly because suicide is a very delicate topic (which I unfortunately have more experience with now) and I want to handle it better. So the story is entirely re-vamped with new character personalities, new backstories, and a new plot.**

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**Prologue  
Oliver's POV**

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I went to therapists. They were supposed to help, but each one, each one was the same. Tell me they understand that I'm in pain and are here to help, then turn around and tell my father that my feelings are nothing, no more than a phase. That I simply needed time to work through it.

But Father wanted immediate results. He said that he had seen this before and didn't want to wait until it was too late again; I needed to be fixed before I was beyond the point of repairing.

He begged them to give me medicine, to really treat it. I wanted it too. Anything, anything to help me get through this, since I was obviously not capable enough to do it on my own. They said no. I was 'too young.' It would 'blow away.' My father would have none of this. He declared that he would take me to a psychologist who would REALLY 'fix' me and would give me medication. And so he did.

I was still broken though. I had enough energy to get out of bed once on pills. And so I did.  
But even through the haze of pleasantness the drug gave me, I knew I wasn't really getting better. I felt like I was masquerading as someone I wasn't; that the real me wasn't good enough to be shown to the world; that my real feelings were just being swept under a rug. My new happy life wasn't any happier.

I regressed. I didn't have motivation to even get out of bed once again. I didn't have the willpower to do anything anymore.

Doing nothing, I had a lot of time to think. A lot of time to brood. A lot of time to cry. Most of the time I didn't have the energy to though. I felt so drained. The thoughts of "I'm worthless," "I'm useless," "I'm garbage," didn't bring me the same heart-wrenching sadness it once did. I just couldn't care anymore. And why should I?

I gave up. It was easier that way. I wanted nothing to do with anyone. Yet each day I was put through the same living hell of school, therapy, and my father.

I began thinking of my mother often. Regret and pity turned to understanding and envy. Jealousy of her strength to leave.

If I could leave like her, I knew everything would be better, to put myself and my father out of that…

Why couldn't I bring myself to do it? Worthless, cowardly me... I knew I was garbage so why couldn't I throw it away? Holding onto everything, stacking up the bad feelings, hoarding all the trash in life and refusing to just end it... I knew it just created a mess for everyone.

I had to clean up my mess sometime. No one else was going to. I was just... ready for it to end.

I had a tendency to lay in bed and imagine how I'd do it while my father was at work.

I would run to the kitchen, pick up that big butcher's knife and... Or perhaps I'd walk into the bathroom, open that alluring medicine cabinet and... But maybe I'd go to into the garage, turn that car on and...

I thought up as many ways as I could to do it. I would picture it in vivid detail, but I could never get my muscles to act on it, to even stand up.

Until one day. "Goodbye, Oliver. I'll see you when I get back," my father informed me as he left the house. That morning, I pictured the medicine cabinet scenario once again.

No he wouldn't.

And with that thought, something happened. I sat up.

I nearly stopped, I was so surprised by myself, but a sense of power and calm was settled in me by that one movement. And then I was standing. I was walking. Like I was in a dream, I was opening the medicine cabinet.

I peacefully closed my eyes for a moment and then picked up the first medicine bottle I saw without a second thought.

I recklessly poured a random amount of the pills in one hand and let sink water pour into my other hand, using it to wash them down.

I continued the process, carelessly picking bottle after bottle, not even glancing at labels. Some of everything, I had figured.

When I was satisfied, I went back to my room with a sense of completeness. Why had I never been able to do this before? Why could I, suddenly?

Nothing had changed. Except something inside me, I guess. I finally couldn't wait any longer, after who knows how long I spent in fear. Of myself, of oblivion, of death.

I accepted it that day. I accepted the pain that wrenched my stomach, the foul bile that my body hacked up, the pounding echoing in my head, and the drained, drugged sleep I fell into.

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**A/N: Once I saw a picture of a young man sitting on tracks with a train approaching, and it's something that really hit me hard. His slouching posture, his hollow expression... He looked beyond the point of caring what was about to happen to him. And that's the saddest thing in my opinion, when someone gets to be like that. I hope I portrayed something like that. Tell me how I did by leaving a review!**


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